


An Unsought Finding

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Mark of the Assassin, Prostitution, Romance, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before Mark of the Assassin, with minor spoilers for the DLC.  Just a short, somewhat sweet moment between Seneschal Bran and Serendipity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unsought Finding

The best brothels never closed; that was one of Madam Lusine’s lines, and there was a speck of truth in it. The Rose was never quiet, never still— forever alive and breathing, quite often moaning, and always,  _always_  warm. That was an odd sort of comfort, most days.

Serendipity swirled a large, soft-bristled brush into a pot of creamy powder, sweeping it across her forehead, then down over the strong line of her nose. The best brothels never closed, and today she was working an early shift; the clientele would be sparser now than after sundown, but not by much. A tumble after breakfast was sometimes just the thing.

The knock on the door was unexpected— she was working early, but not  _this_  early— but Lusine’s security was good for keeping out the worst of the trash. Still, she abandoned the pot of makeup in favour of palming a small dagger, just in case. She was only wearing her robe, watery Orlesian silk the same deep indigo of a ripe plum or a fresh bruise, her hair loose and damp from her bath, but being underdressed for company was the least of her concerns at the moment.

“It’s open; come in.”

When Bran slipped inside, looking exquisitely primped and pressed for another lengthy day trying to keep the city from collapsing, Serendipity turned back to the gilt mirror, dusting powder over her chin and lower, down the line of her throat. “Well, well… now this is a surprise. How can I help you this morning, my dear seneschal?”

The door clicked quietly closed, while Bran lingered near it, not quite squirming. “I’m not here for business.” She recognized that tone, hesitant and slightly brittle, and it would never sound right rolling off the seneschal’s usually barbed tongue. There were a number of things she preferred to avoid before she’d had a chance to properly fortify herself for the day, and a rehashing of their discussion from the week before was high on that list.

She had never been accused of being indirect. “Sweetie, we’ve talked about this. If you think we’re talking about it again, right here, right now, there are a few brutishly gorgeous fellows downstairs who would be happy to show you out.”

“Serendipity, please.” It wasn’t begging— it usually took a significant commitment of time and some rather inventive games with leather straps to have Bran begging. It did, however, sound serious. Biting back a deep sigh, she dipped another smaller brush into a different pot, bracing her elbow on her vanity table as she leaned forward to draw a bit of kohl around her eyes.

“Stop lurking by the door, you’re giving me a headache.” Pointing to the bed, coverlet smooth and neatly made, she spared the man a sharp glance through the mirror. “Sit.”

He didn’t hesitate to slink over, which should have been a clue. Bran was many things, some wonderful and others not so, but rarely was he easily obedient.

He didn’t sit, of course, sidling up behind and laying a broad hand on her shoulder. He was damned lucky she didn’t end up with a smear of charcoal grey up to her brow, but he was also obviously being careful. The feel of his thumb sliding gently along the nape of her neck, was enough to make her set the brush down for the moment.  _One-eyed courtesan_  was not a niche market she was eager to explore. Her own niche was cosy enough.

“Good morning, dearest,” he said, and now his tone matched his touch, warm and honeyed. If she cared to glance up, she was convinced she’d fine his reflection staring keenly back at her. The enamelled lid of her rouge was a far safer place to pin her attention. “I’m not here to argue, either.”

“Not here for business, not here to argue.” She should have hidden her smile; it was too fond, and that would only encourage him. “Whatever will we do to pass the time? Diamondback?”

There was a rustle of cloth, what sounded like the heavy brocade of his doublet, and then the hand not on her shoulder reached around to place a small square of stiff, cream-coloured paper between her makeup pots. “I’m simply here to ask you a question. That’s not so onerous, is it?”

“That depends entirely on the question.” Still not looking at him, Serendipity plucked the paper with the tips of her fingers, turning it curiously. It was a letter, apparently, and the wax seal on the back was thick, blood red, and already broken.

“It is an invitation to the Chateau Haine, for Duke Prosper’s annual wyvern hunt. And before you say anything, I’ll hardly be taking part in the hunt itself. I have no burning desire to be torn to shreds by a gigantic, venomous lizard.” Bran was smiling as well; she could feel it when he pushed her wet hair aside, his lips teasing against her ear and jaw. “Will you do me the honour of accompanying me?”

“Really.” Picking idly at the wax with one fingernail, she made no move to unfold the invitation. “Did you speak to Madam Lusine about this?”

Bran pressed a kiss behind her ear, then drew back, but Serendipity barely had an instant to register the absence of him before he was kneeling next to her chair, fingers resting softly on her silk-covered knee. It was enough of a shock to turn her head, and blight take his eyes, her face grew just a tiny bit warm under his scrutiny.

“I thought I would ask you first.” No living creature should have had the capacity to make her blush anymore, especially not with the sort of stupid, smitten look Bran was sporting. “Forgive me if I’d like this to feel slightly less like a transaction, and more like a proper invitation.”

It happened sometimes, especially with young, impressionable customers, but Seneschal Bran was the last man in Kirkwall one might expect would become… enamoured.

That had been the crux of their previous argument, of course, but no matter how foolishly romantic the notion of shacking up with a doting, enthusiastic, altogether kinky nobleman might be,  _reality_  was a different matter altogether. Serendipity had a very good thing in the Blooming Rose, offering premium services to adventurous clientele, and she would not risk throwing that away for anyone, even someone who did (on the odd occasion), manage to make her stomach flutter like a caged finch.

No, she had a very good, very comfortable life at the Rose; she knew she’d been fortunate, and she knew better than to squander it.

“And what of your lovely wife, Seneschal?” She said it to make him flinch, or maybe if she was lucky, to make him leave. He did neither.

He  _did_  grin a bit toothily, however, which shouldn’t have been so attractive. “She’s just lately gone to Antiva for the season, for her health. The climate in Kirkwall no longer suits her, but she is doubtlessly enjoying lounging on a beach with a half-dozen nubile young men at her beck and call. Her idea, and a fine one at that.” He dragged the hem of the robe just up over Serendipity’s knee, then bent to lightly kiss the newly exposed skin. “We’ve grown apart, mutually. These things happen.”

Which was precisely why Serendipity wouldn’t let him sweep her out of the Rose like a maiden in a tale. Those things did happen, all the time.

“Please,” he said again, interrupting her refusal before it began. “It will be excruciatingly boring, pretentious, and packed full of unbearable Orlesians. I honestly cannot think of better company to help me weather the misery of it.”

“Me?” She hadn’t meant to sound so gravelly, nearly husky, but there was an odd glint in Bran’s eyes that made her throat tighten. She swallowed, then tried again. “Feeling daring are we, Seneschal? Or simply in the mood to cause a stir?”

“You underestimate both the egos of Orlesian nobility, and your own charms, my dear heart. They do not care a whit for anything that does not affect them directly; whether or not  _I_  enjoy myself is of absolutely no concern. It is of concern to me, however.” She allowed him to catch her hand, and to press his lips firmly against her knuckles. “And I dare to hope it is of at least some concern to you.”

 _It isn’t_ , she should have said.

 _It shouldn’t be_ , she could have said.

But instead she said, “Ask Lusine,” and suffered another, brighter grin for her troubles.

“Marvellous woman,” Bran murmured, then rose from kneeling to tangle one hand in her hair and catch her mouth softly with his own. He tasted faintly of cinnamon, and though it was a relatively brief kiss, he still managed to nip her bottom lip to stinging before pulling away. The hand not in her hair had snuck upwards, fingers slipping inside the folds of her robe to play along the firm, flat planes of her chest.

Her own fingers had been gripping his doublet, wrinkling the fine fabric, and she smoothed it thoughtfully as he breathed against her lips.

“I have to go.” Certainly he did; the man had a city to run. More than that, Serendipity needed time to shake off any lingering, fluttering feelings before courting her first customers of the day. Taking hold of his wrist, she pulled his hand from her robe. “May I… may I come back to see you later? Tonight?”

An early shift today, an early shift tomorrow, and then her rest day. Knowing Bran and his schedule,  _tonight_  could be a dangerously broad term.

_To the Void with it._

“Not too late, sweetie.” He was still lingering close enough that a tilt of her chin brushed their lips together. “But yes, you may drop by. You can tell me more about this Chateau and its  _gigantic, venomous lizards_. Really sell it, you know?”

Bran chuckled, arching into the touch when she tucked an errant lock of hair behind one of his ears. There was something about mussing him up, then putting him back together again that was incredibly appealing. “The wyverns? Well, they’re more charming than the Duke, at the very least.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Pek van Andel, who defines serendipity (the concept) as "the art of making an unsought finding."


End file.
